Tracks of My Tears
by thewriteday
Summary: Brenda just seems to know what Sharon needs, sometimes even before she knows it herself. TW: Emotional abuse, alcoholism.
1. Chapter 1

She doesn't know exactly how she's found herself here again. Brenda's small, relatively messy apartment should, for a number of reasons, be abhorrent to her or at least uncomfortable. Instead Sharon only feels safe and cared for. But this could have something to do with where she is currently laying: her back against Brenda's chest, her hips between Brenda's legs, her hair combed in Brenda's careful fingers.

Over a long morning of avoiding Jackson Raydor, this position, this comfort, is all she's been able to think about. She'd texted Brenda with hands that were shaking in anger as Jack wheedled his way further into Rusty's confidence. Currently, the two boys are taking in some excessively violent film somewhere. Just another plan made without her knowledge - Jack had sent a message last minute to say they were going as soon as Rusty was out of class.

It hurts Sharon's heart to see Rusty so ensnared. Partly because she suspects Jack's attention and interest are self-serving and he'll soon become one more fading figure in Rusty's life, leaving as quickly as he'd appeared, likely amidst a string of hollow promises. Their comraderie hurts doubly because it reminds her of how little Jack cared to extend the same effort for his own kids. How is it that it comes so easily for him now with a boy that isn't even his?

"You wanna tell me what's going on?" Brenda's voice draws her out of her thoughts again, reminding her where she is, reminding her that at least for now, she doesn't have to think about the man she's chained too, for worse or for worst. Instead she can think about the gentle arms of this woman she really only sees once in a while. The woman who for some reason gives her comfort, gives her sex, gives her time, whenever she needs it most.

Sometimes she wonders if Brenda does it as a favour. She wonders if Brenda is doing these things because they're what Sharon did for her when her marriage with Fritz dissolved. But when Brenda kisses her, Sharon doesn't mind if it's all just a favour. It feels better than that. And even if that's all it is, she can't find it in herself to care or to stop or to consider what the repercussions of their little island of make-believe might be.

Sharon lets out a shaky laugh. "Nope. I just want to forget about it for a little while."

"Okay. Sounds like a plan." Brenda replies. She drags her fingers in another zig-zag across Sharon's scalp. Then she shifts herself, rearranging them both so that Brenda lays with her back against the couch and Sharon is face-to-face with her, hugged tightly to her body.

Brenda curls a strand of hair behind Sharon's ear and resumes the scalp massage for a while, smiling when Sharon hums and shuts her eyes.

They lie like that until Sharon's phone buzzes in her purse. She sighs loudly at the shattering of her oasis. She turns and sits on the couch, reaching for her bag and checking the cell - a text from Rusty saying they're picking up dinner on the way back, asking if she wants anything specific from the thai restaurant. Sharon responds that she's happy with anything and that she'll be home a little later.

She drops the phone in the purse, drops the purse back on the floor, and drops her forehead against her palms. She tries to rub away the headache that just won't respond to Advil.

She feels the couch cushions move as Brenda sits up beside her. Sharon turns her head, still propped against one hand, and looks at Brenda.

It hits her like a slow-moving wave and in a few moments, Sharon's eyes are stinging and she can't really pinpoint why. Because it's so many things lately: the fear of losing Rusty as per Emma's request, the renewed intrusion of Jack in her life, the fact that even _she_ hasn't seen her kids in months. And on top of it all, she's lost in this mess with Brenda, not really sure where they're going or _if_ they're going anywhere at all. And all of it hits her all at once and she feels like she can't move.

Then Brenda moves for her. She pulls Sharon into her arms and kisses her cheeks, wetting her lips in the tracks of falling tears, without a care. Sharon grips Brenda's arms as if they are her last hope. She cries quietly, almost without a sound and only the occasional sniffle. Brenda turns Sharon's face towards her and kisses her lips gently, encouraging the woman to respond. Sharon gives in rather quickly, letting Brenda's lips lead her. It feels as if Sharon is at the end of a rope in a dark place and Brenda is pulling her out, little-by-little, leading her back into the light.

When they stop kissing, Sharon smiles. Her eyes aren't dripping anymore and her whole body is warm.

"Do you have to leave?" Brenda asks quietly.

Sharon smiles a little wider. "No. Not just yet."

Brenda sits back against the couch and pulls Sharon with her. "Good. Cause I'm not ready to let you go just yet."

That's all they say for a while. Sharon curses herself for smiling more but she can't help it. Because Brenda is troubling and strange and distracting and somehow she knows just how to give Sharon what she needs.

She knows how to give her hope.


	2. Chapter 2

She's still smiling when she steps through her front door and slips inside. She's not home too late from Brenda's. The kissing and comfort didn't escalate very far tonight, just enough to take her away for a while.

The first thing she notices is that the apartment is mostly dark except for the lamp in the family room. Rusty is there: sitting on the couch, looking at something in his lap. When Sharon rounds the couch she sees it's the book she gave him for his birthday last month and she smiles a little wider.

"Hey there. How was the movie?" Sharon asks, tossing her blazer over a kitchen chair and then pulling her hair up in a bun.

"Good." Rusty says, a little curtly, and she knows something is wrong.

Sharon nods. "Okay… and dinner?"

"Fine." He flips a page and still doesn't meet her eye. Sharon ducks down the hallway for a moment to see if the bathroom light is on. "He isn't here. He left an hour ago." Rusty's edged tone pulls her back.

"Oh." Sharon replies.

"Where _were_ you? And don't say work because I know for a fact everyone was out of the office early." Rusty asks, closing his book but still avoiding her gaze.

Sharon panics but barely shows the inner turmoil. The lie slips out smoothly, as always. "I had a few errands to take care of and I thought the two of you might like some time alone."

Rusty finally looks at her. His eyes are hard, his mouth drawn. "Right," he says. And she can tell he doesn't believe her. In a way, it makes her proud to know he can see her bullshit from a mile off.

"Rusty," Sharon wants to say something encouraging or comforting but Rusty's on his feet before she can come up with it.

"I'm going to my room. There's leftovers in the fridge. Night, Sharon." He stalks off towards his room and Sharon's left in the proverbial dust, hoping like hell she hasn't done any permanent damage. It's always hard to tell these days which things she does – good or bad – will stick to their relationship more permanently.

Things between them are much less tenuous then they were at first, but it's still a challenge to make sure he doesn't feel neglected or pushed away. She can tell when he feels like this and it stings. Especially since all she wants is for him to stay right where he is.

She picks up the book where he left it on the coffee table and flips through it for a minute. She feels the guilt settling in. She doesn't know what to say to him when she sees Brenda. Usually it's easy to make a believable excuse, but every once in a while she can tell he sees past it. And she can tell that when he senses hers lie, the old wounds - the ones made by ever untrustworthy adult he's known - are as fresh as ever. She knows if she keeps him in the dark, keeps reopening his old scars every time she lies to him or isn't there or makes him feel unwanted, those wounds will never heal. And that is what she's most afraid of. She's seen what happens to those people who can't heal. She's married to that kind of person.

But how can she tell Rusty the truth about Brenda when she doesn't know the truth herself? She doesn't _know_ what she's doing, and she can't tell him _that_. It would only make him more confused, more distrustful. Because if Sharon can't figure her own life out, how the hell is she supposed to help him with his?

She drops the book back on the table and rubs her eyes, her fingers lifting her glasses slightly to accommodate. For tonight, she'll retire to her room as well, try to get as much rest as she can, and hope that this is one of the things that doesn't stick, that Rusty will wake in the morning with a calmer head and forgive her.

* * *

She's happy to find that the morning offers just the clarity they both need. Rusty apologizes for the night before. Well, he doesn't say it in so many words, but he makes her breakfast as he often does when he's sorry or when he needs to ask for something. The gesture makes her smile. She doesn't give a verbal apology either, mostly because she's not sure what answer to give if she admits her lie, but she tells him that after work they should sit down and watch some TV together. After all, they haven't had a chance to catch up on Fringe and she knows he's anxious to.

He agrees happily and she takes him to school. She tries not to let her discomfort bubble to the surface when he tells her that Jack is picking him up later to hang out. Just until Sharon gets home, he adds, knowing she's not entirely content with the arrangement. She just nods and smiles and waves goodbye, ready to throw herself into whatever Major Crimes is tasked with today.

* * *

It's after 4 o'clock when Rusty shows up at the office looking like he's been kicked in the heart. He tiptoes into the office in back, trying to evade Sharon's radar. Sharon immediately sidesteps Sykes to rush after him.

"Rusty, what's going on? I thought you were with Jack...?"

Rusty glances up for a moment and she can see the hurt in his eyes plainly.

"He didn't show."

"He what?!" Sharon steps closer and sits in a chair across the desk from him.

"I was waiting out in front of the school for him but he didn't show. He wasn't answering his phone and I got tired of waiting so I came here." He glances up at her again as if checking that it's all right, that he didn't do something wrong. It breaks Sharon's heart.

She glances at her watch to confirm the time. "You've been done for over an hour. Why didn't you call me? I could have picked you up," Sharon makes sure her tone isn't admonishing, only sympathetic to his abandonment. She's also trying to keep her rage – which is ramping up quicker than she'd like – out of her expression.

Because how could Jack _do_ this to him? _And_ to her? Because besides the obvious emotional turmoil he's causing Rusty, it's absolutely unacceptable given the rest of the boy's circumstances. What if Rusty's threatening penpal figured out where he goes to school and no one was there to protect him? The mere thought makes her heart beat painfully against her ribs. It's a testament to her self control that she hasn't thrown something across the room.

"I didn't want to bother you." Rusty says quietly. He's trying to deflect the blame from Jack, as if he can't fathom that the man stood him up at all.

She reaches out and grabs one of his hands and holds it firmly. His eyes creep up to meet hers.

"Rusty, you are _never_ a bother to me. Whenever you need me, you _tell_ me and I will be there. You know that, right?"

He holds her gaze for a minute. He nods. He gives her hand a squeeze which she returns before letting it go. Can't hold a teenaged boy's hand too long without risk of embarrassment, whether anyone's around or not.

Sharon checks her watch again out of habit and stands from her chair with a grin. "What do you say I duck out of work early and we get a head start on TV catch-up."

Rusty looks taken aback at Sharon's suggestion. "Don't they need you here?"

Sharon smiles wider. "Not right now. Besides, it's nothing Lieutenant Provenza can't handle. And he'll probably be glad to have me out of his hair for a while."

Sharon steps out of the room, out of Rusty's sight, and her hands immediately curl into fists. Everyone in the murder room glimpses the look on her face as she sweeps past them, headed straight for her office. They exchange concerned looks but are too afraid to follow her when she's clearly pissed.

Sharon grabs her cell and calls Jack – once, twice, three times – and then leaves a bitter message to the tune of, who-the-hell-do-you-think-you-are and how-dare-you. She hangs up before her more colourful language takes over completely, though she's sure she's let slip a few words her mother would have thought were very un-Catholic.

She takes a few more minutes in her office to compose herself and then returns to her squad. She smiles weakly at Provenza and pulls him aside to explain. He squeezes her arm, tells her "Of course, Captain. We've got everything here under control," and she feels a little better.

She isn't alone in her care of Rusty, not really. The whole unit has been there to back her up, regardless of how they initially felt about her leadership. And she could not be more grateful when she waves goodbye to the rest of them and they all smile back at her, genuinely, without any reservations or attitude or judgement. They're on her side, something she never could have imagined as a reality less than a year ago.

"Ready to go?" She asks as she returns to where Rusty is waiting eagerly, his backpack in his lap and a little shock still obvious in his face. He may never get used to being put first or being considered a priority. But she hopes he does someday. He deserves to.

"Yeah," he says with a smile. He can tell she's desperate to take revenge on Jack, that underneath her serene surface she's bubbling with anger. But she wears a smile just for him and the least he can do is wear one for her. Besides, she really has turned a shit day into a better one. And in less than ten minutes. If that isn't Captain Sharon Raydor efficiency, he doesn't know what is.

* * *

They get through five episodes of Fringe before Rusty falls asleep on the couch. Sharon pokes him in the side until he groans and wakes up enough for her to tell him to go to bed. He's about to stand up to just that, but then he turns to Sharon on the couch. She raises an eyebrow.

"Thanks, Sharon." He says in a voice that's still roughened by weariness.

"You don't have to thank me." Sharon says. It's what she believes. She would do the same thing for any of her kids. He is no different to her and the sooner he realizes this completely, the happier they'll both be.

"Yeah, well. Thanks, anyway." Rusty replies. He looks uncomfortable for a second, like he's about to say something else. Instead he leans forward and hugs her awkwardly. She's in shock for half a second before she's hugging him back.

He extracts himself just as awkwardly and stands, nodding as if he's reassuring himself that everything's okay.

"Night, Sharon."

"Goodnight." Sharon replies with a smile.

* * *

In the middle of the night, Sharon's rest is disturbed by sounds from the kitchen. She feels a dreadful sense of déjà vu even as she ignores it. Because Jack wouldn't be stupid enough to make a return visit like this. She feels the need to give him that much credit. After all, she married the man.

So she pulls her service weapon out of the bedside table and tiptoes down the hall without making a sound. First she checks Rusty's room and finds him sleeping undisturbed. This at least is a blessing. She shuts the door gently and slinks back down the other way towards the kitchen.

She hears him humming and grinds her teeth together.

She lowers the gun to her side. When she rounds the corner and sees him with his back to her, she simply stands there for a long moment, struck dumb by disbelief.

He finally becomes aware of her presence and turns around to appraise her – her body is tense, her jaw is tight, and he remembers this look well enough to know that he needs to tread carefully. Unfortunately for him, he has had a few more drinks than his usual indulgence allows and his prior knowledge isn't informing his wits anymore.

He smiles slowly. He gestures to the counter behind him. "Hope you don't mind. I was just making a sandwich."

"You were supposed to be staying in a hotel, or in that apartment you're _supposed_ to be getting for yourself." She says.

Jack sways a little where he stands and Sharon's blood boils in her veins.

"I know, but I got your messages an hour ago. I'm sorry. My phone died sometime this morning and I didn't notice. In my defense, I was _sure_ you were picking him up today."

Sharon scoffs at that, rolling her eyes in a practised arc. "That excuse isn't good enough, Jack. Care to try another?"

His smile slips away and he pulls a pained expression, aiming for sympathy now. He takes a few steps towards her – remarkably steady ones, considering – until he is right in front of her. He places his hands on her shoulders and she fights the urge to push him away. Instead she stands completely still. She wants to hear what he's going to say this time.

"Shar, I'm sorry. I came here because I wanted to apologize in person." He smirks slightly. "You always find me more agreeable face-to-face.

Her expression didn't warm an inch. "How many did you have tonight? Five? Six?" He stiffens. "Or is it closer to ten or eleven?"

Jack's face loses any of its humour, falling immediately into a stony grimace. He drops his hands from her arms and stalks back to the counter.

"Closer to twenty, maybe? Maybe you've been going all day. Maybe you were at the bar when you were letting down yet another person who just wanted you to care." Sharon's entire body is vibrating.

She can tell by the way his shoulders hunch that she's done it. She's sent him spiralling in the other direction. His charms are exhausted and all he has left are their opposites.

"Well he's not even _my_ fucking kid. So tell me why I should give a shit." He turns around, leaning against the counter and fixing her with a hard stare.

"You shouldn't. And you shouldn't have pretended to. He deserves better than you."

"You're a real piece of work." He shakes his index finger in the air as if conjuring an old remembrance. "Sometimes I forget just how fucking holier-than-thou you pretend to be. You think you're so far above us all and we're just standing in awe of how fucking perfect you are. But _you_ forget that what made me drink in the first place was this exact same bullshit. It's your goddamn fault that-"

"Don't you _dare_ blame me." Sharon's voice has dropped an entire register, nearing a growl. "I don't care where you go, but you have to get out of my home. Now."

He chuckles and scratches absently at his chin. His eyes darken when he turns them back on her.

"Or what." He says. A chill runs down Sharon's spine. She's heard this voice before. It's the one she tries to forget. It's the one that made her leave him in the first place. The one that scared her so badly she hadn't been able to sleep soundly for a long time after their separation. The one that made her afraid of him.

The voice is so uncanny that the old fear snaps back into her in an instant.

She raises her gun instinctually, without a thought.

"Get out. Of _my_ home. Now."

He looks down the barrel then into her eyes and back again. He's afraid now. He should be. But he tries to hide it anyway. He raises his hands in the air in mocking surrender.

"Are you gonna shoot me, Sharon? Is that how much _better _you are, that you'll shoot your own unarmed husband?"

His drunken bravado makes him take a step towards her. She firms up her grip on the gun and backs away, clearing his path to the door.

"Get out, Jack. I don't want to see you again."

He nods, picks up his sandwich from the counter, and sways as he walks past her and out the front door. She's at it in a second, throwing the added locks closed, making damn sure he can't use his key to barge into her life again.

She puts her back against the door and sinks to the floor. She puts her gun down beside her – the safety is still on, has been since the moment she entered the kitchen – and buries her face in her arms.

"Sharon?" Rusty's voice is just above a whisper. He sounds afraid and she wonders how much he heard. She raises her head to see him hugging the corner of the wall, peeking out at her.

"I didn't mean to wake you," is all she can think of to say.

"Are you okay?" He rounds the corner finally and comes over to where she's sitting. She reaches up a hand and he takes it, pulling her to her feet.

She smiles weakly at him. No more lying. "Not just now. But I will be."

Just before he steps back into his bedroom and she steps into hers, he speaks so softly she wonders if she hears him right.

"You deserve better too, you know."

* * *

An hour after Jack has left, Sharon still can't sleep. The scene in the kitchen is replaying over and over in her mind and there's only one thing she wants to do but can't. Her phone is set on top of the bed and she's staring at it.

Every once in a while she reaches for it or uses it to check the time even though the clock on her nightstand works just fine.

After another few minutes of fidgeting, she buckles. It takes four rings for a response at the end of the line.

"Sharon? Wassgoinon?" Brenda's voice is thick and Sharon can imagine the blonde in bed, sleep-mussed and confused. The sound of her voice and this picture in her mind's eye makes Sharon smile instantly. It falters in a second when her reason kicks in and reminds her that she shouldn't be calling a woman she only knows casually and sleeps with sometimes.

"I – I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called." Sharon says. But she doesn't hang up. She hears shuffling over the phone and imagines Brenda sitting up in bed.

"Are you all right? Somethin' happen?"

"Jack showed up again. Unwelcomed. I just..." Sharon hesitates. "I just wanted to hear your voice." Sharon gulps hard and wishes she hadn't just said that. It's too much, too serious, and too brutally true.

Brenda says nothing at first and Sharon is sure she's overstepped her bounds. Then the woman asks something she never has before and Sharon has to catch her breath.

"Can I come over there?"

Sharon blinks. "Rusty's here."

"That doesn't really answer my question." Brenda says.

"It doesn't?"

"Nope."

Sharon is the one who hesitates this time. She shouldn't want exactly what Brenda is offering as much as she does, and she does want it. Painfully so. It's why she picked up the phone in the first place. But admitting that is terrifying. Because she still can't figure out what it means for them or for her or for her situation with Rusty or any of it.

"If you want me there, that is," Sharon can hear the sudden uncertainty in Brenda's voice, the little shift, as if the woman isn't sure where she stands anymore. It's that uncertainty that makes Sharon's response come easily.

"Yes."

The change in Brenda's tone is instant.

"Okay, then I'll be there soon."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Still hasn't gotten terribly sexy yet, but all in good time my pretties. Thank you so much for your reviews, follows, favourites, etc. You're all amazing!

* * *

**Tracks of my Tears – Chapter 3**

Sharon is nervous as she fidgets in her seat at the kitchen table, waiting for Brenda to arrive.

Reasonably, she shouldn't be nervous at all. This is what they've been doing for months now: calling each other up whenever nothing else will work to calm them. At first it was Brenda's turn – weeks spent responding to her new-divorcée whims, helping her forget each twist of the knife by the application of affection – and then, after a lull in their correspondence, Sharon had begun to feel an absence. It had prompted her to call Brenda, after a period of total silence, and ask for the Chief's reciprocation of comfort.

To which the Chief willingly obliged.

But this has been going on too long and Sharon is beginning to feel an unbalance. She knows that it's only a matter of time before the silence resumes and they're back to leading their solitary lives apart. Sharon has no doubt that Brenda has many potential candidates waiting to pick up where Fritz left off and, after all, Sharon is just a pseudo-spinster trying to take care of a foster child and, at times, feeling like she's failing miserably at holding the pieces of her life together.

Once Brenda feels her obligation has been fulfilled, Sharon is sure she'll break off this _thing_ between them. And the thought has her stomach upending over and over. She feels like she's on the precipice, waiting for a fall, waiting for the moment Brenda decides to leave.

And Brenda hasn't even arrived yet.

It's in the midst of one of these hurling stomach turns that Sharon hears a faint rapping against the door. She practically leaps to her feet and chides herself for the way she attacks the door: on it in a moment, opening it abruptly.

Brenda is there. And she looks tired and worried. Under her jacket she wears a tiny pink camisole and plaid pyjama pants. Over her arm is her monstrous purse and an overnight bag. Sharon realizes she is staring too long – as though the woman might just be a mirage – so she smiles tightly and sidesteps to allow her guest inside.

Brenda is barely through the door before she drops her bags and pulls Sharon into a firm embrace, her arms viced around Sharon's neck. Sharon nudges the front door closed with her foot, refusing to leave the hold, and returns the gesture in kind. Her eyes close and she lets out a sigh at the glorious weight of Brenda's arms, the scent of her skin, the brush of her cheek. If this has to be a last time, Sharon wants to be able to recall every, vivid detail.

Brenda pulls her arms back slightly so she can hold Sharon's jaw in her hands. She observes Sharon's features closely: the creased brow, the soft bags under her eyes, the reddened whites exposed without her glasses.

"Did he hurt you?" Brenda asks in a whisper.

Sharon smiles and shakes her head. Her hands are slung comfortably around Brenda's waist. "No. No, he just scared me a little. I really shouldn't have imposed on you like this," Sharon says. She always feels the need to apologize for needing this so badly. Brenda leans in and stops her with a kiss.

"Don't." She mutters against Sharon's mouth. "I ain't listenin' to you carryin' on like that when you've been s'good to me."

Sharon smiles at how much thicker Brenda's accent becomes when tangled with sleep. It's impossible not to adore her when she's like this – sleep-addled and doting.

Her smile drifts when she realizes the words that Brenda has said are still an indication of what she fears: that it's a _favour_ that brings Brenda back. Not like the noticeable absence that drives Sharon to crave these meetings. Sharon nods and grabs one of Brenda's hands from her cheek, squeezing it softly.

Brenda smiles and picks up her bags from the ground, never letting go of the proffered hand, and lets Sharon lead her to the master bedroom.

Brenda drops her bags on the ground and shuts the door as she watches Sharon sit on the far side of the bed. The Captain is brimming with tension and Brenda doubts very much she's had much sleep tonight. Brenda climbs into bed and lies down, her back perched against the pillows. Sharon remains seated on the edge, her back to Brenda, her shoulders slightly hunched.

"C'mere." Brenda says. Sharon turns on the bedspread and Brenda reaches for her, pulling the woman all the way onto the sheets. She forces Sharon to settle so that she's lying stomach-down along Brenda's body.

Sharon's cheek rests against Brenda's chest as it rises and falls. For a moment she feels herself relaxing until her mind slips back to Jackson's voice laced with anger and his eyes drawn hard and cruel.

Brenda feels the woman's body stiffen against her.

"No, no, no, none of that." Brenda coos. She kisses the top of Sharon's head. Her hands begin a lazy dance over Sharon's back and neck and arms, her fingers dragging in looping, nonsensical shapes over her nightdress and freckled skin. "You have t' sleep, Cap'n, or else everyone in the office tomorrow's gonna grate on you like a freight train."

Sharon chuckles against her and her taut muscles slacken some. Brenda nuzzles her cheek against Sharon's hair as her fingers continue their aimless trek.

"Mornin' will be here before you know it and you can get on with your day and be much happier for it. I promise." Brenda smiles as she speaks softly. She recalls the times that Sharon has held her in similar ways, with a similar, tranquilizing impact. She knows the motions because she has learned them in Sharon's arms.

Brenda blinks a little to keep herself awake, unwilling to pass out before Sharon has drifted completely.

Soon enough, she feels Sharon waver into rest: her breathing evens; her muscles lose all tightness; her breath washes out over Brenda's skin in sleepy little exhales. Brenda smiles to herself and lays another reverent kiss on top of Sharon's head. As she drifts off to sleep herself, she wonders if Sharon knows that this process is a gift to both of them. She wonders if she knows that Brenda feels as safe holding her as she does when she's held back. Unsure of how deep Sharon's understanding goes, Brenda submits to this comfort, this relief, of just being _with_ her, as she too drifts off.

* * *

When Sharon rouses in the morning, it's to the sensation of wet kisses being placed against her chest. In the night Brenda has moved only slightly, their bodies still pressed front-to-front, only now they lie side-by-side under the comforter.

Sharon hums approvingly to signal she's awake then mumbles a groggy, "Good morning."

"Mornin," Brenda manages before she moves up and sucks lightly along Sharon's throat.

Sharon's mouth falls open even as she smiles and lets herself sink into the feeling of Brenda's tongue swirling over her neck. Sharon grasps at Brenda's hair in encouragement. Brenda smirks against her skin and shifts a leg between Sharon's thighs. When Sharon grinds lightly against her, Brenda's smirk broadens and she separates only slightly to lock eyes.

She reaches around and grabs Sharon's ass to pull her harder into a steady rocking. But before Brenda can progress too far into her passionate assault on Sharon's mouth, they both freeze at the sound of the bathroom door shutting in the hallway. They breathe harshly as they hear the shower start.

The sound jolts Sharon out of this fantasy she's pretending she belongs in and she pulls out of Brenda's arms, stands from the bed, and adjusts herself. She glances at the clock on the nightstand and notices that at least she hasn't missed her alarm. Rusty's just up earlier than usual. Because he probably didn't sleep much either. And while he was sleepless, she had been playing make-believe with Brenda in the next bedroom as if she is a woman approaching 20 years instead of 60.

She sighs and soothes her forehead with her fingers. A rustling behind her tells her Brenda has sat up in bed.

"Sharon?" Brenda's voice is a fraction of its usual tenor. She sounds small and afraid. "Did I do somethin' wrong?"

Sharon turns around and puts her hands on her hips. She chews her bottom lip for a moment. "What are we doing, Brenda?" The words are out of her mouth before she can think better of them or re-word or reconsider how frail this question must sound. She waits.

Brenda sits up straighter against the headboard and pulls her knees into her chest. She seems to think hard for a few seconds. Her mouth falls open and she inhales to speak, but then she stops before uttering a word and closes her mouth again.

Sharon purses her lips and nods to herself. "I need an answer to that question before… well Rusty already is suspicious and I don't know what to tell him. Because I don't_ know_ what we're doing."

Brenda shifts her eyes from the bedspread to Sharon's face. "Neither do I, I'guess. But," Brenda smiles weakly. "I know I don't want it to _end_." When Sharon says nothing in response, Brenda reaches out her hand.

Sharon only stares at it at first. Then she takes her hand and sits back down, their fingers intertwined on the bed between them. She sighs. "Then we need to figure it out."

They can hear the shower fall silent and they both glance towards the bedroom door before looking at each other again.

"Well there probably isn't enough time for deep conversations right now," Brenda says with a smirk. "But how about we plan somethin' this week. Find some time to talk." She draws her thumb over the back of Sharon's hand.

Sharon nods, mulling this over. "And how do I explain to Rusty why you're in my bedroom right now?"

"Assumin' he hasn't realized that anyone else is here," Brenda drops her volume down another register when she hears the bathroom door open, followed by the open and close of Rusty's bedroom door. "You go get ready for work, take Rusty to school and get out of the apartment, and I'll shower and head out as soon as you're gone."

Sharon almost laughs at how quickly and casually Brenda suggests this plan, as if this sort of thing is old hat to her. Then Sharon realizes it _is_ in a way. The affair with Pope must have had Brenda organizing all kinds of elaborate escapes and rendezvous. But that's not exactly what this is, Sharon reminds herself. She tries to suppress the hope that it's _more_ than that.

"Okay." Sharon agrees with another squeeze of Brenda's hand. She crosses the room to her purse and pulls out her keys, sifting through them until she finds the spare she wants. She returns to the bed and passes it to Brenda. "You'll need this to lock-up after we leave." Sharon tries not to place any significance on the fact that she's just given Brenda a key to her home.

Brenda grins broadly and takes the key, then pulls Sharon down to the bed and kisses her soundly, deeply. Sharon moans into Brenda's mouth and arches into the hand that moves to roam over her stomach. Sometimes she hates that this is so easy, that it's so natural to fall back in to Brenda's touch at any moment. If it were easier to resist, she'd be just fine. She'd be allowed to be the same old Sharon: respectable and immovable and unstoppable in her will.

But that _woman_ can break her with one look, one touch, one _word_ and Sharon just can't bring herself to care right now.

Brenda stops kissing her for a moment, throws her a cheeky smirk, and leans in so her mouth is next to Sharon's ear. Sharon holds her breath, waiting for Brenda to speak or bite or _something_.

"Don't use all the hot water," Brenda says. Sharon covers her mouth to silence the sputtering laughter that tries to spill out. When she's composed, she turns her head, places a peck against Brenda's lips, and slides out from under her.

"You're terrible." Sharon says as she collects her clothes for the day from the closet and tries desperately to hide her grin.

"I know!" Brenda says, as she stretches out across the bed like a cat and produces a satisfied groan. She watches Sharon collect her things and then gives her a little wave when she ducks out of the bedroom door and pulls it closed. Brenda reaches for her purse and resets the alarm on her phone. She might as well get a little extra shut-eye while she waits for the other two to leave. The notion of staying longer in Sharon's bed is simply too good an opportunity to pass up.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Many, many, many thanks to Liz (frakkingblerg) for being my beta and being absolutely wonderful as always.

* * *

**Tracks of My Tears – Chapter 4**

Rusty is too quiet in the car. He refuses to look at her. She pulls in front of the school and before he moves to open the door, she reaches out a hand to stop him.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong?"

He diverts his gaze. "Look, I know you've been… seeing someone. I know someone other than Jack came over last night. And if you really don't want to tell me, that's fine. I just thought you should know that I'm not completely clueless."

There's hurt in his tone and Sharon winces as she feels guilt creep into her gut again.

"I figured that you knew. And I don't want to hide anything from you, it's just that the situation is somewhat… complex," Sharon says and almost laughs because she can't tell if this is an understatement or simply the wrong word. _Confusing_ might be a better one. Crazy might work too. "I do intend to explain, but first I need to understand it myself." She pauses. "Does that make any sense?"

"Sure." Rusty nods and gives her a weak smile that clearly conveys his disappointment. "It's just that, I can _tell_ because you seem like, happier sometimes, like you just found twenty bucks on the ground or something, and I can tell it's because you've been with whoever-it-is."

It's strange to think that she's so obviously displaying the effects of seeing Brenda. It makes her heart beat a little faster and she can't decide if it's with trepidation or excitement.

Rusty notices the blush in her cheeks. "All I'm saying is, if it's someone that makes you happy, you don't have to be ashamed."

If Sharon's a little surprised at the mention of shame, she shouldn't be. Isn't that how she's been acting? Hiding her little meetings and trysts with Brenda as if _they're_ the ones still attending a Catholic high school.

She isn't _ashamed_ of what she has with Brenda. She's concerned as to how it will affect her other relationships and unsure of exactly what she wants from the woman, whether it goes beyond a comforting, physical connection to something else.

Meanwhile, she's been trying to draw Rusty further out of his shell, easing him into his own self-identity – whatever he discovers it is – and is currently setting the worst possible example for him.

After all, would she want _him_ to hide who he is or who he loves simply because it confuses him?

"I know and it's not that I'm ashamed, it's simply… _complex_." Sharon flashes a tight smile as she curses herself for using the useless word again. "I'm working on it."

Rusty nods again. He isn't used to having such an intimate level of understanding with another person. It's why he sometimes snaps and uses what he knows of Sharon to hurt her: it's a force of habit. His longest relationships before Sharon have been about use and abuse and he's still trying to navigate what is expected of him.

"Okay, well, good then." He mutters, shuffling his hands and readjusting his backpack against his shoulder. "I'll see you after school, okay?"

Sharon nods. "Have a good day, Rusty."

"You too."

* * *

Brenda carries the smell of Sharon – or rather of her shower products – around with her all day. She's happy to have discovered that Sharon's skin owes its scent to a Shea butter wash and her long hair gets its shine from some lovely herbal-y shampoo with a bizarre name Brenda could not for the life of her pronounce.

It makes the work day go faster somehow, as if she has the woman at her side throughout, keeping her sane amidst a sea of affidavits.

Still there's a seed of doubt that tells her she shouldn't be comforted at all. She's still unsure what Sharon is going to say when they eventually discuss their situation. Brenda has at least said that she wants to continue it in some way, but from Sharon there has only been the _sense_ that maybe she does too.

Brenda knows better than most that a _sense_ is not enough to go on. She's had far too many cases lead her in one direction only to have the opposite outcome. Her personal life has been that way too: thinking that Will would leave his wife for her; that she and Fritz would be able to hold their relationship together even after the fights worsened and lengthened. That there would be plenty of time later to speak with her mother.

What good were her _senses_ then?

These thoughts bring a daydreamy Brenda back down to Earth. Although she hates to let these apprehensions surround her, she knows she has to puzzle through them before she ultimately talks to Sharon. Otherwise she is sure to misrepresent what she's feeling and lose her for good. And that, Brenda decides, is an absolutely unacceptable outcome.

* * *

It's the following Wednesday and Sharon's barely had a chance to breathe. She's had four cases back-to-back, etc. with no break to speak of. There have been several texts from Brenda throughout, checking in and seeing when they can schedule some time. Sharon's been keeping her updated, venting to and being consoled by the one person who knows _exactly_ how it is. She's struck by the realization that she's never asked Brenda for advice or sympathy about work before.

But then, when she'd taken over the mantle of Major Crimes, she'd wanted to separate herself from the enigma and approach of Brenda Leigh Johnson. At least in practise. In principle, she has always admired the woman's leadership, regardless of her somewhat unorthodox tactics.

It's impossible to forget the volatile beginning to their working relationship, when Brenda's stubborn non-compliance grated on Sharon's every nerve, but lately Sharon sees this stubbornness as integrity. And Sharon admires the hell out of that too.

She's in the middle of reviewing the latest updates from Lieutenant Tao and Doctor Morales when someone knocks at her door. She checks her watch and calls out for whoever-it-is to come in.

When she catches sight of long blonde curls and a gorgeous grin, her own face fills with light. She imagines she looks like someone who's found that the oasis isn't just a mirage.

"What are you doing here?" Sharon asks as Brenda shuts the door behind her.

In response, Brenda raises her hand, which is carrying a takeout bag from a Vietnamese restaurant down the street. "Thought you might be hungry and I figured you probably haven't been feedin' yourself regularly."

Sharon feels her stomach grumble in response. "You are correct in that assumption."

Brenda turns to the blinds and closes them, opting for a little more privacy before she blushes and turns back to Sharon. "Oh, I didn't even think – I mean I was going to stay and have lunch with you if it's all right, but I can go–"

Sharon has rarely seen Brenda so fidgety and she's unsurprised that she finds the reaction adorable. She cuts her off before she can put herself in too much of a panic. "Of course it's all right. I'd love to have the company."

Brenda nods, smiles, and fiddles more with the blinds before taking a seat across the desk. Sharon's eyes are all over her as she dissembles the bag, sliding a container and chopsticks across the desk.

"I hope chopsticks are okay, I wasn't sure and I did mean to ask for cutlery just in case–"

Sharon interrupts her again before she starts stuttering. "Brenda. Relax."

Brenda slumps a little, embarrassed that she's so out of sorts. The truth is she's been planning this drop-in for the past few days and only today conjured the minimum requirement of nerve to follow through. Even though Sharon seems pleased, Brenda fears she's only being polite in the way that Sharon perpetually is.

She looks at Sharon, who is still waiting for confirmation that the blonde will be okay. Brenda glances around for a moment, checking that the blinds are providing enough privacy, then pushes herself out of her seat and rounds the desk.

Sharon watches every move with one eyebrow lifted in perplexity. Brenda sits against the edge of the desk, takes the Captain's cheeks in her hands as she leans down, and plants a gentle, lingering kiss against her lips. She slips her tongue inside the willing mouth and tastes the remnants of the morning's coffee.

When she pulls away, Sharon's cheeks are burning beneath her palms and her eyes flutter open.

"That's better," Brenda coos softly with a stupid grin.

"Except now _I'm_ the one who's flustered." Sharon says.

Brenda shrugs as she struts back to her chair. "Well, evens the playin' field then."

"Or _upends_ it." Sharon replies.

She's forgotten about the food. Her eyes are pinned to the blonde. They rake down Brenda's long neck, over her chest, all the way to the small tease of cleavage. All Sharon wants to do is trace the hollows of that collarbone – draw her fingers over all that tender skin and lose herself in it completely. Her eyes slide back up to Brenda's smirk. Sharon lets out a breathy laugh. "God, you're turning me back into a teenager."

Brenda grins impossibly wider as she opens her container of food. Sharon follows suit – finally – when Brenda asks a question.

"What _was_ Sharon Raydor like as a teenager?"

Sharon chews thoughtfully and hums. "Same as now, I guess." She smirks. "Your regular, old stick-in-the-mud, pain-in-the-ass."

Brenda gives her a "what-a-load-of-shit" glare that begs for a real answer.

Sharon rolls her eyes but keeps grinning. "Okay! Okay. I was… middle of the road in terms of popularity, near the top of my class in terms of academia but not _too_ brainy. I liked English best, liked drama too even though I was terrible at it."

"A thespian, huh? I can just imagine you recitin' your Shakespeare in front of a mirror. You'll have to perform for me sometime." Brenda says. She tries _not_ to picture Sharon in a corset. And fails.

Sharon chuckles. "We'll see." After a pause and another bite, Sharon asks, "What was teenaged _Brenda_ like?"

Brenda's eyes twinkle. "I want to know what you _think_ I was like."

"Okay, well let's see. I won't insult you be guessing you were a cheerleader. I'll bet you were smart as a whip. Probably thought you were smarter than everybody else – and there's a good chance you were. Naturally pretty," Sharon grins, "Not attention-seeking. But getting attention anyway."

Brenda scoffs.

"Am I _that_ far off?" Sharon asks incredulously.

Brenda rocks her head from side to side. "Not _too_ far. Studious and smart – yes. Attention-getting… not so much. I didn't catch an eye or turn a head till I was in college."

Sharon's eyebrows shoot up. "I find that _very_ hard to believe."

"Well believe it, Captain. I was a tomboy till the age of 18."

Sharon's jaw drops overdramatically. "Get out."

Brenda nods and smiles broadly. "Yep: baggy pants, overalls, men's shirts; fightin' with my brother and huntin' and fishin' with my daddy. The whole shebang. Why d'you think it is I can't cook?"

"There's a difference between can't cook and _won't_ cook, you know."

"Mmhmm, and sometimes they're one in the same." Brenda replies.

"So when did you turn into a pastel-wearing, skirt-donning, Southern Belle?"

"Well, momma wasn't too keen on my boyish tendencies. So she made it a requirement of my going away to college to embrace a more feminine wardrobe."

"Awww," Sharon says through a sputtering laugh. "Poor Brenda Leigh!"

Brenda grins and continues. "She sent me off with barely a smidge of my old clothes and a suitcase full of skirts and blouses and all kinds of nonsense. And after a while, the nonsense just kinda grew on me."

Sharon finishes her last bite and closes the container. Brenda eats her remaining noodles in silence and does the same, tucking the refuse back into the takeout bag. "D'you think we would have gotten along in high school?"

"I think so. Although perhaps not at first," Sharon remarks with a knowing grin. Brenda laughs. "I would kill to have met tomboy Brenda, though."

"You still can sometime. I keep my old clothes around for lazy Sundays. Nothin' like oversized shirts and jean overalls to relax in."

After a hesitant pause, Brenda gets up and rounds the desk again, this time reaching out a hand to hoist Sharon to her feet. Her hands drape around the woman's waist as she pulls her close. When Brenda speaks, she does so very softly.

"I know we still have to talk, but I wanted to see you, and I've never been known for my patience."

Sharon winds a piece of Brenda's hair around her finger. "And yet you've been nothing but patient with me for a while now."

Brenda smiles. She wants to explain that this is because Sharon brings patience out in her, that she brings out all kinds of qualities Brenda never thought she possessed. But she knows these admissions are part of the imminent, larger conversation they don't have time for at the moment. And Brenda isn't about to force it when she knows she's already pressing her luck. Instead she leans in and means to kiss Sharon again – to get one last dose of the incredible feeling that accompanies it – when a knock at the door makes them jump apart. Brenda scoots to the other side of the desk – the safe side – and collects her purse, trying to catch her breath. Sharon smooths out her clothes, sits back down, and clears her throat.

"Come in," Sharon calls out and Mike enters warily, having noticed the closed blinds. His eyebrows raise when he sees Brenda.

"Chief! What are you doing here?" He smiles broadly and holds a hand towards her. Brenda takes the hand and pulls him in for a hug instead.

"Just havin' lunch with the Captain. Figured she might need a break since y'all are so busy." Brenda tries desperately not to blush. And fails.

"Well you should come by and visit sometime when we _aren't _drowning in suspects. Better yet, if we charge someone this century, we should all go out for a drink." Mike smiles warmly at Brenda and then – in a move that suggests he's just remembered what he's come into the office for – he turns suddenly towards Sharon and schools his features into work-mode. "Speaking of which, Amy and Julio are back with Ethan Farnum. He's waiting for you in Interview 2."

"Thank you, Mike." Sharon says with a nod. He bows out and closes the door behind him, leaving the two women to exchange a look that's part relief and part disappointment.

"Well I'll let you get to it then," Brenda says as she shifts her purse onto her shoulder and tosses the takeout bag in the trash.

Sharon crosses the room in time to stop her and she takes Brenda's hand in her own.

"I'll let you know as soon as I have time. And thank you for coming by. You really are too sweet," Sharon says as she leans in and places a chaste kiss to Brenda's lips.

* * *

The opportunity ends up being Friday night. Rusty is spending the night at the Tao household watching movies (under the guise of being tutored by Mike's son), and Sharon's most recent case has finally been closed.

Sharon calls Brenda early in the day and extends an invitation for dinner. Brenda shoots her down almost immediately, only to reverse the invitation and insist that Sharon come to _her_ place. She also insists she'll cook, which musters enough concern in Sharon's tone that Brenda laughs.

"I recall you saying there's a difference between _won't _cook and_ can't_ cook, Captain." Brenda says.

"Right. And you said they could be one in the same. Without verifying which is actually the case."

After some reassurances, Sharon agrees.

She arrives at Brenda's apartment that evening and slips through the door that's been left unlocked for her. She shuts the door behind her and locks it, shucks her shoes and only then notices the near-unrecognizable state the apartment is in.

It's spotless. Ceiling to floor, wall to wall – it appears that _everything_ has been washed and the usual clutter that only a week ago dotted various corners and surfaces of the room has been completely lifted. Sharon stands in front of the door, gaping, for a full minute before she recovers the fortitude to continue towards the kitchen. She's met by rich aromas, all shockingly pleasant.

Then she's stopped in her tracks again.

Brenda is standing in front of the oven – oblivious to her guest's arrival – stirring the contents of a large skillet. But what has stopped Sharon is the burgundy dress she's wearing. And the frilly little apron that's tied at her waist and peeking around her hips. The combination is jarring. Unexpected. Sharon is stuck staring for the second time in the evening and Brenda doesn't even know she's here.

Realizing she should make herself known, preferably without Brenda flinging whatever she's making ten feet in the air, Sharon clears her throat softly.

Brenda whips around but manages to keep the pan stationary. "Hey!" Brenda says, her lips slipping into a wide grin. She glances at the skillet and then back to Sharon. "I've just about got dinner ready – why don't you pour some wine and grab yourself a seat?"

Brenda turns back to manage the food and Sharon follows her orders and pours out the indicated Chardonnay into two glasses. She can't help but notice that Brenda has opted for something other than her usual Merlot.

She takes a healthy sip for herself and instead of sitting down, comes to the chef's side to lean against the counter and observe.

"You cleaned." Sharon says.

"Sure did," Brenda confirms.

"And you're cooking."

"I said I would."

"And you're wearing an apron. And that _dress_."

Brenda finally glances over at her. "Is there a point to all these observations, or are y' just provin' you've still got eyes. Cause I'm pretty sure I knew that already."

Sharon shrugs. "Just saying. It's almost like you're trying to impress me – which would be silly. And unnecessary."

Brenda flips some veggies around in the skillet absently. "Does that mean you aren't impressed?"

"No. On the contrary, I'm kind of flabbergasted."

Brenda swallows hard and her voice drops low. She strikes the spatula a little more roughly against the pan. "Well, don't hold back. Tell us just how _shocked_ you are."

Sharon grabs the wrist that's jockeying the spatula like she's stabbing someone in the chest and stills it, forcing Brenda to stop and look at her.

"I'm incredibly flattered to have a beautiful woman put so much effort in for little old me. Especially when all she has to do is enter a room to have me wrapped around her finger." Sharon says.

Brenda tries to stifle her encroaching smile by biting her lip. She pulls her wrist gently away from Sharon and resumes cooking. "That's more like it. Now sit down – I've got it just about ready."

Sharon does as she's told – again – and settles herself into a comfortable, long-back chair. It takes her a moment to register the difference.

"Is this a new dining set?"

"Yes ma'am; picked it up last week."

Sharon wonders if this has anything to do with the somewhat judgemental look she'd given the tiny, round, battered table and folding chairs that had been here before. She had hoped Brenda hadn't noticed the reaction because she'd inwardly berated herself for it. When one was still relatively fresh from divorce, having all the required furniture was not really a priority.

Brenda comes to the table in the midst of these thoughts and sets their plates down.

Sharon's eyes widen at the meal – stunned again by how good it looks and smells.

"It's a Southern stir-fry," Brenda provides when she notices Sharon inspecting the food. "One of mama's recipes." Brenda's expression falters a little. "She left me all her old cookbooks. I guess she was hopin' I'd finally figure it out for myself. I've only made this one once before."

"It looks delicious," Sharon says and catches the drifting brown eyes with her own.

"I sure hope it _tastes_ delicious. Or else she'll be rollin' in her grave." Brenda says and then takes the first bite tentatively. Sharon does the same.

Sharon nods as she relishes the flavours on her tongue. "I think it's safe to say she'd be very proud."

"Yeah, not too bad for a novice. If I do say so myself."

Sharon pauses.

"Brenda – everything is so lovely. But you know you didn't _have_ to do this, right? I would have been content eating pizza on the couch in our pyjamas."

Brenda sets her fork down for a moment. "I know. I just… I know you've had a long week and I wanted everything to be–" She hesitates, trying to find the right words. "I wanted your night off to be perfect. Or as near to it as I could get it."

Sharon is struck dumb again; Brenda is trying to take care of her. Granted, Brenda has been doing this for a little while now, but usually it's with bodily comfort, not cooking and cleaning and preparing and besides, Brenda isn't exactly known for doing these things for anyone. And yet here she is: making dinner and dressing up and buying new furniture.

If Sharon can make it through dinner without kissing Brenda senseless, she'll consider it an accomplishment.

* * *

The duration of the meal is quiet but comfortable. They share a little conversation here and there but mostly they are content to just sit and eat since both of them are mentally preparing for this pre-determined necessity to "talk." It's an idea that sounds more and more daunting by the second.

Brenda sets the dishes aside and brings the remaining wine over to the couch where Sharon is sitting.

They shuffle awkwardly in their seats, glance at each other, then away, fidget aimlessly.

"I don't – I've never done anything like this, with anyone, before." Sharon says, deciding it's as good a place to start as any.

"I guess you know that I have, to some degree. Not the same way – I mean…" Brenda trails off, lost for words so uncharacteristically that Sharon's heart hurts a little. "I guess I'd like to know where you are, what you've been thinkin' about."

Sharon blinks at Brenda, then inspects her hands. She takes a steadying breath. "I feel that, perhaps you're only in this situation because you feel obligated or that you have to even the score between us. And I don't want that. I don't want you to feel like you _have_ to be here. Like you don't have a choice."

Brenda's mouth hangs open a little. She hasn't considered that Sharon is feeling somehow _guilty_ about their relationship, at least not in this way.

"Sharon, when you called me up the first time after everything, when you called _me_ instead of the other way 'round, I _wanted_ you to. It felt – it _feels_ good for you to need me. And it makes me feel better that I wasn't just… usin' you those times when I was fallin' apart. I hated the idea that I was just taking advantage of your kindness. You were so good to me." Brenda smiles.

She recalls the state she was in when she'd first received her divorce papers. She'd known they were coming and yet having them in their hand, holding the real, tangible evidence of her continued string of personal failure – that was the point her composure left her.

She had reached out for Sharon instinctually. The lawsuit had given them an understanding of one another she'd never thought possible and they'd become something like friends in the subsequent months. Brenda also hadn't expected herself to react so suddenly and so physically to Sharon's innocent comfort.

Sharon had been obviously shocked and confused at first. And yet she'd given in, submitted to what Brenda seemed to need. She'd been generous and warm and understanding. And soft – so soft Brenda nearly forgot who she was really with at the time. This was no hard, abrasive Captain of the LAPD. She was Sharon.

Brenda feels the sudden need to verify that this is who she is speaking to – Sharon, not Captain – and she reaches for the woman's hand, forcing them to draw closer on the couch. She brings the hand between hers into her lap. Still soft, she concludes.

"When you came to me for somethin' in return. It felt so good to be able to give you something back, I didn't care what it meant."

Sharon sits very still and stares at her captured hand. "So you do want to be here?"

"Yes!" Brenda replies instantly. "I thought that was obvious."

"It is." Sharon affirms. She does not smile. She licks her lips and takes in another breath. "But I suppose I'm not asking the right question. I enjoy being with you, but I still don't know what that means. And I don't know that I can entertain a 'sometimes' affair at my age. I don't quite have the constitution for that anymore, if I ever did."

"Sharon Raydor," Brenda says, shaking her head with a little smirk. "You are perfectly capable of very many things, I can testify to that. But what if we tried something a little more… regular?"

This time Sharon does look up. She sees the nervous energy crackling in the warm, brown eyes that meet her own. She sees sincerity. Or perhaps that is her own hope deceiving her again.

"Would you even be interested in something like that?" Sharon's voice is small. She hates the sound of it. She wonders when she became insecure in this way, so critical of her own desirability or attractiveness to others. She supposes it arrived somewhere along with the dots of cellulite, the skin that hangs lower than it should in places, the nets of wrinkles that grow at every curve and corner. She's never been a vain woman; she's considered herself largely unaffected by that kind of shallow self-doubt. But there are days that she simply feels old. And these days wear on her confidence more than she'd like.

"I'm interested in _you_. And I wouldn't mind seein' more of you." Brenda smiles. "More _often_ that is. Since I've seen _more _of you than most."

Her expression turns serious again as she pulls Sharon's hand more tightly into her own. "Maybe I am your means to an end lately, like you were mine, but it still _means_ something to me. Tell me the truth: did you, I mean when I first came to you, did you feel like I was using you?"

Sharon supposes she could lie, but at this point the effort seems futile.

"At first. Only because I wasn't sure if you actually wanted _me_ or just _someone_ and I happened to be there."

Brenda smiles small, as if there is a secret in her lips. "I didn't want just anyone. I wanted you."

Sharon feels her stomach coil tightly and her skin flushes. She has been desired before, but the way that Brenda looks at her, as if she wants to consume her in earnest, is unlike any lust she's ever encountered. It's visceral; she can feel it when she enters the room. But more importantly, it doesn't seem like a shallow thing. It has depth and substance.

"And you don't think it's a little fast for you to be heading into something more serious? I don't want to push you." Sharon says.

"I mean, it is a little soon I guess. And it's fair to think maybe I am just reachin' out for the first thing that comes easy. So I understand that you've got your reservations. But I know what a rebound is; I've had enough of 'em. And this – _you _– don't feel that way."

"Oh? And what _do_ I feel like?"

"Safe." Brenda says, then after a second adds, "Right."

Sharon's vision blurs and she smiles, widely, warmly. Her entire face glows. She isn't being let down this time. Someone's trying to stay with her instead of trying to leave. And that's just about the best news she's had in a long time.

Brenda continues, "I guess I want to know if you feel that too or if I'm just _losin'_ it here." Brenda drops her eyes and lets out a breathy laugh, dark and full of uncertainty.

Sharon leans in and lifts Brenda's chin, emboldened by their collective honesty. "You feel right too, Brenda Leigh," Sharon says just before she leans in and draws Brenda's mouth into a languid kiss. When they separate she brushes their lips together and lets her words wash over the other woman's skin. "Very, _very_ right."


End file.
